Unrequited Love
by Character Sketches
Summary: A series of oneshots connected by the theme of unrequited love. Each chapter is written by an individual member of the Character Sketches forum. The greatest thing is to love  and be loved in return.
1. Albus and Gellert

**By way of introduction:** This story will comprise separate chapters written by the individual members of the Character Sketches Forum. Each chapter will focus on a different unrequited love pairing.

**General Disclaimer: **None of the writers involved in the project is J.K Rowling and in no way are we claiming her characters, plot or ideas as our own.

**1. Albus loves Gellert written by Frayed Misfit**

**.What Memories Are Made Of.  
**(hopscotch in the fading light and the sun behind dark clouds)

Albus doesn't know where it all went wrong.

--

He can still smell the traces of apple shampoo in Gellert's hair as they sat around the dining room table at Godric's Hollow.

His eyes had a certain fire to them, which permeated behind the pupils, which reached down into his soul, whenever they talked about the Hallows and their desire to better the Wizarding World.

He would lean forward, gesticulating wildly to their plans drawn in the empty spaces of books, their dreams trapped between formality and bold black words.

"You must see now how it is for the greater good Albus?"

His words were always too quick, too easily did Albus drink them in, as if they were the life that sustained him.

The both of them turned towards the empty hallway leading to Albus' incapacitated sister Ariana. The fact could not be denied that muggle's had haunted her into insanity, because they did not understand magic.

Yes, it must be so, wizards must rule muggles. It was the only conceivable way, in some ways it was preordained, quite clearly wizard's held more power.

(People with power ruled)

The ultimate power was encapsulated within the Hallows, by conquering Death, they could conquer anything.

(even love?)

--

Albus can still see his blonde hair swept back off his face, his mouth pulled in concentration, his wand hand steady.

They often fought about trivial things and Gellert was always quick to anger, his temper was always purring just beneath his skin.

"Really Gell, let us think about this rationally, I don't see why you should get so upset."

"You're hiding it from me aren't you? How do I know I can trust you?!"

"I've told you quite plainly, I don't know where it is."

"I've never understood why you can't see the connection with Ignotus."

"I just think that the cloak is the last Hallow that we should obtain, the wand and the stone are of far more importance."

Gellert shook his head, stowing his wand back into his cloak.

"You only say that because you desire the stone, Albus. But you are blinded, the stone can not make someone fall in love with you."

"You are right, nothing can force love."

--

Albus can still taste the roast beef sandwiches Bathilda made for them that summer.

They would sit in the garden and eat them, their legs crossed on the wet grass, the canopy of trees shading their pale skin.

When they ate lunch they talked about other things, content to enjoy each others company.

"I've always wanted to fly on a thestral."

Gellert had said, his hand wistfully pulling on the stems of grass, twisting them absentmindedly between his fingers.

"I think we should be thankful that we can't see them."

"But we will see them one day, we have to prepare ourselves for that Al."

His eyes had struck Albus as containing a feverish fire, he should have seen it then, Gellert's strange passion for success regardless of the human loss it would cause.

But under the shade of the tree, with the summer sun burning in the background and the taste of beef and mint in his mouth, he could not see past childish dreams.

--

Albus can still hear Gellert's heart beat in the early hours of the morning.

The lounge room was sleeping, the curtains hiding the slow rising of the sun.

Gellert's heart beat had become one with the ticking of the clock on the wall, it seemed mechanical and dull, where Albus' heart struck to its own beat, slowing down and speeding up, slowing down and speeding up.

The candle has burnt out; the wax has formed shapes where it has died on the coffee table, a myriad of images contained in wax figures.

They were not substantial, and Albus would have to scrub them off during the day, they only seemed significant now, when the world was dreaming.

They had fallen asleep, crumpled on top of hastily made plans, Gellert's body spread over thick parchment maps, his hair almost falling into the inkwell.

(This is perfection)

--

Albus can still feel the hairs on his arms lifting.

It had always amazed him that such small particles of hair could make him shiver so much, make his heart race and his head beat frantically.

Gellert was leaning over his shoulder, his chin grazing Albus' collar bone.

It was amazing how well they fit together like that, how body parts were made to fit into others, like a jigsaw puzzle. Gellert's chin in the hollow of his shoulder.

They stood at Ignotus' grave, searching for answers that were buried too deep.

If Albus had been wiser, he would have seen that things which are buried are best left that way.

--

"Where did it all go wrong?"

Albus questions, his hair graying, the skin of his hands withered now.

Gellert studies him from inside his cell at Nurmengard, trapped within the walls he had built himself, from the inside out.

"Can't you see Albus, can't you see?"

He lifts his hand to the iron bars that are surrounded by an ancient magic, Albus feels the inextricable pull to reach out to him, to experience new memories, in new places.

Albus forces his hand to remain in his pocket, even though it is straining to reach the other hand.

And Albus understand where it went wrong, how it all fell apart.

"Yes, Gellert, I can see now."

Albus takes a step away from the cell.

"It was love that tore us apart."

--


	2. Luna and Harry

**2. Luna loves Harry by -rainbow-lights.**

**-Freefall from the clouds-**

Imagine. Imagine for a second that you are Luna Abrelina Lovegood. You're that little blond ethereal oddity that floats through life unnoticed. Imagine that you're alone far to often than is healthy or normal for any being, human or otherwise. Imagine that you dream sleepovers and late nights, of jokes between friends and pillows fights. Imagine that your mother's gone, and now you've lost your only friend.

Imagine, a few years after you start at Hogwarts, that by some odd stroke of something wedged between luck and lust, _the_ Harry Potter talks to you. Your conversation starts out innocent enough--you convince him he's not insane: you can see thestrals too. But then, imagine that his mind becomes your santum. He's the only one you can confide in any more; he truly listens. He follows you into your worlds of masquerade balls with golden masks and of midnight saunters in silk slippers and doesn't make fun. He understands you.

With him not every silence needs to be filled; your thoughts can just dance around you both, filling the same space. Sometimes merging, but thoughts thoughts such as these are always awkwardly dismissed-- he's in love with your best friend. More so, he's the reason you have a best friend.

Imagine he tells you how wonderful you are whenever he feels the sudden (though only friendly,) ugre. Poetic nothings about how everything about you is a color. Your hair is silver, because he chuckles out, delicately precious and preciously delicate. Your eyes are blue, for the obvious reason, but also because they're so calming, but yet deep to unknown depths. (Like the ocean, he'd add). Your wit, he finds to be red, bright and attention catching, too much so for most people, and yet just enough for you.

Imagine he tells you his dreams, his theories, his inquiries, his thoughts, and his wildest fantasies that no-one but you and him even know exist. Not Ron, not Hermione, not even Ginny, just the two of you in your own seperate universe. He tells you that not everything has to make sense, somethings just have to be they way they are. (It's just the way life is, he points out)

He forces you to believe that love exists, even though he, who has lost so much more than you, has trouble believing that himself. And still, he's steadfast in his belief, and unware how much you already know that, for if it didn't there'd be no word for what happens in your chest when he sneaks you an extra danish from the kitchens, or takes you to the astronomy tower every month to show you the constellations moving across the darkest rivers of sky. Still, you argue that if your mother loved anyone, she wouldn't have ended her own life. And as usual, he counters with 'Would you really have wanted a constantly depressed mother ?', and like always, you retort, 'No, but I'd have liked to have had a mother at all'. You both turn away, your mutual annoyance building an invisble wall between you both. This lasts for a fleeting moment, and you turn to face each other, uneeded apologies twisting into incoherent waterfalls of words before they even leave your mouths. And then you pause, and laugh, a subconcious ritiual between the closest of friends.

Your laugh, he finds to be lavender. You make a face: you've never been quite fond of lavender. Or your laugh for that matter. You've always found it to be much to immature, childlike for a lady, and lavender a pale imation of the rich jewel tones of violet. Your mother disagreed. He ignores you as you voice this (discluding that last addition), and continues on. Lavender, because it's a shade of purple, it exudes the same regality but leaves the pompous attitude behind. It's soft and twinkling, like windchimes caught in a wisping summer breeze. Suddenly, having a lavender laugh doused in silver wind doesn't seem all that bad.

Imagine that he's every thing you want, crave, need and more. Imagine he lets you freefall from the clouds, but's always waiting to catch you if you pick up to much speed. He lets you float upward into oblivion but is always there to pull down before you soar away from care, away from the people who love you. Imagine he fills the hole in your heart with daydreams of laughter, rainbows, lilies, carnivals, and little girls in white tulle tutus with wavy blonde hair and scorching green eyes.

Imagine that with him, you don't have to imagine anymore.


	3. Peter and Lily

**3****. Peter loves Lily written by Cuban Sombrero Gal**

**.Strawberry Shampoo.**

She smells like summer, like ocean breezes and strawberry shampoo. Peter's eyes absorb her, he is so enthralled that he almost doesn't notice his friends' stares, they are hazy remnants of a past and she is the bright everything that represents the present and the future. Something, somewhere in his mind, tells him to pinch himself, because he is dreaming, but it's impossible for dreams to be this vivid, this real. And then he snaps out of his trance, the smell is still there, as alluring as ever, but so are his friends and their faces.

They are livid, but their harsh words and livid stares do not cut Peter the way he expected, because fury is supposed to burn, to make your heart bleed, and yet it doesn't.

As she marches off, he can still smell her shampoo.

**--**

She's too good for me, he tells himself, because even if that's not entirely true (he's a Marauder and what are the Marauders if not adored and loved) it's the only way he can forget her, because as much as he feels something when he sees her, and it's so tantalising and exhilarating, but he needs to purge the memories, if only for the sake of remaining James' friend.

Now, Lily is nothing but the indistinct shadow that lurks in his dreams, always dancing gracefully across the background, luring him and yet never coming any closer than she does in life. Even Peter's dreams were designed to mock him, it seems.

Next Hogsmeade weekend, Peter buys a bottle of strawberry shampoo, ignoring the bewildered looks on the faces of his friends.

Its essence is exactly like her, as fresh and invigorating, and yet it isn't. The shampoo smells like her, but it isn't her. It's fake, just a smell, it can't ensnare him quite the way she does in life.

But he still continues to sniff it, knowing, somewhere deep down inside, that this could be as close as he'll get.

**--**

The shampoo is comforting though, it's like a drug that causes euphoria, except the euphoria is short lived. His mother once told him that a smouldering fire is more real and intense than sparks, because while sparks are electrifying and a vibrant display of light, smouldering fires are more real, they put more effort into developing themselves and they are just so real and intense.

Her strawberry scent may waft over him like the most luscious summer breeze, but it rarely lasts. It filters away quickly, leaving his body, his mind and his spirit aching for more, exactly like the sparks.

**--**

It was always inevitable, Peter knew this, and he prepared himself for the harsh reality of it all before it even happened, but still his heart aches and his head protests. They were intangible, tangled and knotted and twisted and delirious. They fit together perfectly, their innocence is so genuine and Peter feels like he is drowning, they are the unreachable salvation and he is left to fend for himself, unsure which way is up and which way is down. He's lost, and Lily is the shining beacon of light, but she's being smothered and dulled in his eyes by James and his frequent, passionate kisses.

Sometimes, in that blurry, almost surreal world that lays somewhere between sleep, dreams and reality, he wonders if James can smell her shampoo as well.

--

Peter is there when they first kiss; Sirius grins impishly, Remus is glowing and Peter just feels numb. He does not really exist; he's just an empty shell, devoid of any real emotion and purpose. He wishes he felt searing pain ripping through his muscles, or his fragile heart shattering into a million pieces as though it was nothing more than glass. Something, anything to make sure he really was alive.

They kiss again; Lily's face is glowing with a gorgeous smile that makes her shine like the sun and James is nothing short of over the moon. Peter doesn't believe in astrology, because the stars are doing a poor job of controlling his love life, but he knows that the planets are aligned, that the stars are nodding contentedly. Lily and James are destiny.

Tugging on Sirius' arm, Peter gestures back towards the castle, wanting to do nothing more than cower under the sheets like the little boy that he is and hibernate until the world is sunshine and rainbows again.

Instead, he sits on the toilet, head in hands, sniffing a bottle of strawberry scented shampoo.

**--**

Peter is the first person James approaches when he decides to marry Lily. He knows this is only because Sirius will laugh and Remus is on mission for the Order, but he appreciates the gesture all the same. He clasps his friend's hand, ignoring the fact that it is sweaty and disgusting. Peter just nods his approval, if he tried to spit out anything else he would most probably choke, not on saliva but on bottled up emotions, all of which are straining and daring to attempt to bubble over and cause a mess.

So James proposes, and Peter stands torpidly in the photo, as close to Lily as he can probably get without it becoming suspicious.

That night, he grabs the shampoo bottle, before thinking better of it. Its heavenly scent only lasts for a minute or so. Instead he reaches to his bedside table, complete with a mug of cold tea, and longingly grasps the photo, before viciously tearing away the section that contains his fellow Marauders. Tapping it with his wand, he neatens the scraggly edge, and tucks it under his pillow.

The shampoo may provide quick relief, but photos and memories last forever.

**--**

Peter sits in the front row at Lily and James' wedding, making polite talk with Lily's sister, who's obviously horrified by the sheer number of witches and wizards in attendance.

He's elated on James' behalf, for his friend has finally achieved his childhood dream, but something seems to be chewing away at his heart, casting murky shadows and doubt upon their relationship, whispering that it should have been him instead.

Peter pushes the voice away, and goes to ask the bride for the next dance.

Even after all this time, she still smells like shampoo.

**--**

He leans his head on her shoulder, drinking in the scent, revelling in the closeness that he's always been denied.

"I love you Lily," he whispers, and she stiffens, she pulls away, but she also seems unfazed. Lily has always been rational.

"I'm sorry Wormtail," she says, and that's all it takes. Peter feels that horrid drowning sensation again, he has to get away before he suffocates in memories that while wonderful are now also painful and poisonous. Dwelling on the past aches, rips a little, unrepairable hole in his heart, but pondering a future full of unreciprocated feelings is even worse.

He throws the shampoo bottle in the bin.

**--**

Two days later, Peter sends an owl to Lucius Malfoy, who's intimidating, but Death Eaters, as he's heard they call themselves, are above love, and that's exactly where he wants to be.

He also rescues the shampoo bottle from the bin.


	4. Ariana and Gellert

**4. Ariana loves Gellert by something-like-love**

**rainy nights and music boxes**

Ariana drew her knees up to her chin, reveling in the comforting feeling of the warmth the surrounded her. Though it didn't become truly cold in Godric's Hollow until the wintertime, at night the wind that whipped through the house made it terribly chilly, and she was thankful that Al had seen fit to start a fire in the grate before he had left- actually, Ariana felt a little sad that he had gone. Al had gone on a trip to the theater with Gellert, which sounded like a very fun place to go, and she wished that she could too.

She stared into the flickering fire, observing the strange patterns it made on the wall opposite. Abe had been more angry than jealous when he found out, and Ariana decided that she had learned a lot of new words from listening to his rant after Al had left. Luckily, he wasn't hovering over her shoulder as she lounged on the settee, making sure was all right. She felt guilty thinking this, but she did prefer her time alone, after all. Abe had gone out nearly three quarters of an hour ago to tend the goats, and before he had left he had told her what the clock on the pale blue sitting room wall would look like when it was time for Al and Gellert to be home. The short hand on the ten, the long hand on the six. Short ten, long six, short ten, long six...

The long hand was on the five. It was almost time for them to come home. Ariana stirred her milky hot chocolate absently with her finger, taking special care not to drip any onto the pages of the book she was reading. It was her ancient copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_, and although she could do nothing but look at the lavishly illustrated pages, she wasn't about to ruin it. She contemplated asking Gellert to read her a story from it when he and Al returned home; she loved Gellert's voice. He had an odd accent, yet it was still understandable. Ariana sighed as she thought about it. She would ask him to read _Rabbity Babbity and Her Talking Stump_. That story had lots of singing and rhyming, which she did love, and Gellert always had her sing with him. It would be wonderful.

Ariana looked up suddenly as the crack of Apparition rang through the house, followed by raucous laughter. She scrabbled up on the settee just as Al and Gellert entered through the sitting room door, talking animatedly and brushing back their windswept hair. Gellert's blond curls fell over his eye, and she felt the urge to brush them back.

"Hi," she piped up, drawing their attention to her. Al looked surprised.

"What are you still doing up?" he asked her, his eyes narrowing. She shrank back slightly, sliding her arms over her knees. "And why in the he- why in the world are you wearing my trousers? _And_ my jumper?"

"Cold," she answered simply, crawling to the other side of the settee. Al rolled his eyes, and Gellert laughed slightly. Ariana felt reassured; she had been worried that Al would be terribly angry at her for taking his clothes, which she did every so often. She liked the feel of his trousers, which hung loose on her hips, and his midnight blue jumper that was much too big for her tiny frame. They were comfortable during these windy nights, much more so than her thin cotton nightgowns and scratchy dresses.

"I'm going to go to bed," Al announced, grinning at Gellert. "Thanks for a wonderful time. Are you going back to your Aunt's?"

"Not quite yet," Gellert responded with his quaint German accent. "I haven't given _liebling_ her gift." Ariana perked up at the mention of her pet name in his native language- Al had said once that it meant darling, and it always pleased her that she was Gellert's darling. He smiled at her, and she stretched out her legs, sore from being bent for such a long time.

Al sighed. "All right. But please don't keep her up too late?"

"I won't," Gellert assured him, pressing a hand to Al's shoulders to make him go towards the stairs. "Now, _gehen sie_!"

"Go!" Ariana substituted, proud to have learnt this word in German. Al looked as though he wanted to argue, but Gellert shook his head and pushed Al's back once more. Grudgingly, Al finally went up the stairs to his bedroom.

Ariana was delighted when Gellert came to sit on the settee with her. He was on the opposite side, however, and several feet away. She wilted at this until he patted the space beside him and said, "Come, _liebling_. I have a gift for you." Ariana obediently slid next to him, pressing her trouser-glad knee onto his and resting her chin on his shoulder.

"Would you like to see your gift?" he asked her amusedly. She nodded, inhaling the scent of peaches mixed with rain that she had come to associate with Gellert. He reached inside his pocket and carefully withdrew a small box, only slightly bigger than the one's that Papa had given Mama her rings in.

Ariana stared at it, curious and touched that Gellert had gotten her a gift.

"Hold open your hand," he ordered gently. She did so, and he pressed the box into it. She looked up at him questioningly.

"Open?" He laughed and nodded.

"Please do." Eager to find out what the box contained, Ariana slid her fingers under the opening and pulled. Her fingers tended to fumble, but she held them steady as she slowly peeled back the top. What was inside was still concealed by a bit of tissue paper, and she gave an irritated huff. Gellert laughed.

"Just under that, Ariana," he promised her. She liked the way he said her name, and played it over in her mind as she plucked off the tissue paper.

"_Oh,"_ she breathed, pulling out the tiny contraption and placing it softly onto the palm of her hand. "_Oh._" She raised it up to her eye level, conscious of Gellert watching her every move. The small device shimmered and sparkled from enchanted lights, and stood neatly on four tiny claw legs. It was shaped, she decided, like a dome that she had seen in one of Al's Muggle books, though this was infinitily more pleasurable to look at. Down the sides ran miniscule beads of pearls, dropped on the blue satin background like the raindrops she could now hear pounding outside the window. The legs it stood on where golden in colour and shined in the firelight.

"You like?" Gellert asked her. She looked up at him, a wonderful smile spreading over her face.

"Beautiful," she murmured, her eyes once again finding the object stationed in her hand. Gellert gently pried it from her fingers, and for a moment she worried he was going to take it back, until he placed it in his own hand and said, "Let me show you how it works."

He reached again into his pocket and withdrew a silver coin, smaller even than the Knuts that Al used to buy their food with. It was about the size of her thumbnail, and engraved with gorgeous entwining designs. Ariana's breath caught just looking at it.

Gellert caught her amazement and winked at her; Ariana flushed.

"Look," he muttered, twisting her gift around. On the back was a slot that Ariana hadn't noticed, and, under her watching eyes, he inserted the coin into the slot. "Listen."

The dome parted halfway, making Ariana take notice that it was divided into two parts. Inside there was a tiny platform that raised itself up, and she watched, breathless, as tinkling music began to pour out. There was a small figure of a woman stationed in the platform, and she spun around, guided by the music. Upon peering up close at it, Ariana could see that the woman figurine was made of clear glass, and that in her hand she held a lovely looking glass rose that was no larger that a snippet of one of her hair ribbons. Tentatively, Ariana reached out and pressed a finger to it. Gellert smiled encouragingly and she found that the glass was smooth and cool under her fingertip.

Suddenly, the soothing music came to a stop. Very slowly, the platform lowered, and the figurine disappeared beneath the top of the dome. With wide eyes, Ariana looked up at Gellert.

"You like?" he asked again. In response, she smiled, so widely that she thought her face might break, and threw her arms around him. Her face was buried in his chest, and she found that she liked that position, curled up beside him on the settee. He was much warmer than Al's trousers and jumper. Ariana began to feel vaguely uncomfortable about the fact that she wore nothing underneath the jumper that was pressed so close to Gellert. Nervously, she looked up at him, and was surprised that his face was so near hers.

"I'm glad you enjoy your present, _liebling_," he said to her._ Darling, _Ariana thought happily, _Gellert's darling._

"What are you _doing?_"

Ariana jumped instinctively at the loud voice. She whimpered softly, refusing to believe it was only Abe, and compromised by pushing herself deeper into Gellert's embrace. She heard his voice speak calmly to her brother. "I have given her present. You wish to see it?"

"Not particularly," Abe snapped. "Ariana, you should have been in bed hours ago. Come along."

Even though she longed to stay where she was, Ariana complied miserabley, recognizing the tone in Abe's voice. She blushed to find that Al's jumped had ridden up over her stomach, and pulled it back down hurriedly before following Abe's retreating form up the stairs, clutching in her hand Gellert's gift.


	5. Ginny and Draco

**5. Ginny loves Draco written by cupid-painted-blind**

**why the fruit is forbidden**

She wonders when she lost her mind. Surely Mum didn't raise this sort of girl, right? She frets and she fumbles with strings and with the ends of quills and thinks that maybe she ought to be committed to that spell damage ward of St. Mungo's because no girl is as crazy or as stupid as she's been.

But... There's something so magnetic, so - there's no word for it, really, just some sort of force about him that drags her closer, pulls her under, drives her mad. He's beautiful and he's terrible and he's everything she can never, ever have, and that makes him irresistible. And that's not right, it's so wrong and it's so foul and it's so cruel but she just can't turn away.

It's just a crush, she tells herself. Just a silly crush on a stupid boy and soon enough she'll grow out of it and go flying back into Harry's arms. Right. Just a stupid crush.

Her heart flutters faster when he comes near, when she smells his cologne (even though she coughs and loudly complains about idiots who think dress codes don't exist and feel the need to rape the nostrils of _everyone in the entire north wing of the school_, she thinks it really does smell good). Her heart flutters and fumbles and tumbles over and it's not a good feeling at all. All the romance novels say that hearts skipping beats is supposed to be a good feeling, but it's like she can quite breathe and she seems to lose control when he's around.

It's most definitely not what she's supposed to be feeling.

But she really can't pretend it isn't there - after all, Weasleys aren't exactly known for complexions which hide their emotions, and for that, she kind of hates being a Weasley. Because, really, this is getting old. This has gotten old. Got old a long time ago.

She taps her foot impatiently, stuck behind him in line at Honeydukes, loudly sighing and throwing irritated glares at his back, while he _deliberately_ takes longer than he has to, asking the teller mundane questions about which sort of chocolate is better, the white or dark, and whether chocolate covered cherries are better than chocolate covered strawberries.

All she wants to do is buy her damn frogs and get away from his cologne and blond hair and cold eyes. But he's a jerk. For a moment, she's seized with a beautiful_ hate_, and not the cute, romance-novel hate that always seems to grow into love. No, no. This is the real sort, the kind that she's supposed to be feeling about him. She savors it, tastes the sweet succulence of loathing, rolls it around on her tongue.

Oh, this feels good. This is right, remember, this is how she's supposed to feel when it comes to him.

And then she hears his voice, all deep and arrogant and the hate is gone, replaced by a disgusting mushy feeling, because _damn_, he has a sexy voice. And a tiny piece of her cries, because even though Harry is adorable and wonderful and handsome, his voice just can't hold a candle to Malfoy's.

She sighs heavily and taps her foot louder. Suddenly, Malfoy turns and, with an irritated, nearly disgusted look, tells her to stop that idiotic tapping. _After all_, he sneers, _it's not like you've got the money to_ buy_ anything._

She raises her hand to slap him, but drops it lamely at her side instead. She won't accomplish anything by hitting him, no matter how good it would feel. Her roommates have recently been dogging her about her little violent streak, warning her that she'll never get a real boyfriend if she doesn't learn to control her emotions. She thinks that any guy who's serious about her should love her in spite of her emotions, but then again, they have a point.

So she doesn't hit him. Just fumes. And sabotages his chocolate covered cherries later that afternoon when he isn't looking and leaves them sitting at his table in the Three Broomsticks, with one of the Twins' love potions.

She can't explain why she does it. Partly to get revenge for being such a jerk, partly because she knows her brother will probably hit him or at the very least curse him for it, and then partly because -

Partly because of reasons she doesn't want to admit. Partly because of the same reason any woman gives someone a love potion. Partly because being the object of his affection sounds like a wonderful way to spend the rest of the day.

She shakes it off and heads for the castle, stolen cherries in her hands.

After all, they're just cherries. Just chocolate on fruit. He won't miss them. In fact, he'd probably thank her if he knew what was sprinkled all on them. Right. Just a mistake she's made that she managed to show a rare moment of sense after, and fixed. No problems. Just cherries.

That night, she throws them all into the lake, refusing to believe that she's crying. Refusing to think that she'd rather take _his_ fake love than Harry's real. Refusing to admit that she was willing to go that far for a stupid crush.

After all, they're just cherries.


	6. Lily and Severus

**6. Lily loves Severus written by Avindara Nirvene**

**Torn.  
(starring the ever-wonderful Kahlia)  
**

The day started out perfect.

After many days of studying, screaming, and fretting, exams day had finally  
come. The day all her friends dreaded, Lily anticipated.

Her Defense Against the Dark Arts written exam had gone fairly well – she  
had to guess the fifth sign of distinguishing a werewolf, but felt sure it  
would at least get an E. She and her group of friends – Mary, Aimee, Bonnie,  
Kahlia, and Cayenne were dipping their feet in the cool water, laughing,  
relaxing before their next exam: transfiguration. Marlene was further onto the  
shore, studying, and occasionally she would shout a question down for them to  
answer. Lily sighed contentedly, basking the warm sunlight, watching a few  
first years playing with the Giant Squid – scratching its tentacles with a  
stick, and laughing as the great squid sprayed them with water. She closed her  
eyes, wanting to keep this blissful moment.

"Lily." She heard Marlene call, and she opened her eyes.

A flash of orange light, a crowd of onlookers by the beech tree, and an  
upside-down, bat-like figure. Fuming, she walked over. Shouted at James and  
Sirius. Watched Sev's pallid lips curl to form the "M" sound. Heard her  
heart break.

Lily blinked. "Fine," she said coolly. "I won't bother in future. And  
I'd wash your pants if I were you, Snivellus."

But on the inside, she is broken. Torn. Ripped limb to limb.

She never forgives him. 


	7. Gabrielle and Harry

**7. Gabrielle loves Harry by A Shade of Grey**

**fairy tales and true love**

_A mighty pain to love it is,  
And 'tis a pain that pain to miss;  
But of all pains, the greatest pain  
It is to love, but love in vain._  
--Abraham Cowley

Love is pain.

Gabrielle has heard this expression her entire life, but she's never understood the meaning of it until now, the moment when she's lost her true love forever.

Yes, true love, because she knows that they were meant to be together, that their love should have been the story of the century. In a perfect world, he would have been the Prince Charming to her Sleeping Beauty, awakening her from a long, enchanted slumber with a warm, tender kiss. He would have pulled her onto his shining white steed and ridden off into the sunset with her, all the while whispering sweet words (he loved her, he couldn't live without her) in her ear. They would have lived out their lives together in a perfect, blissful Happily-Ever-After.

But maybe that's where she made her mistake-- assuming that her fairy tale ending would come of its own accord-- because this world that she lives in _isn't_ perfect; _Happily-Ever-After_'s don't come naturally. Maybe she shouldn't have put as much trust in Harry's love-at-first-sight (which, of course, he must have felt; why else would he have saved her in that lake?) as she did in hers. Maybe she should have come to England to see him earlier than she had to remind him of his feelings. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Yet, this line of thought amounts to naught in the end; her _maybe_'s cannot change the fact that Harry is in love with another girl. _Nothing_, in fact, can change this, for Harry is too noble to ever leave a woman he's professed himself to, too noble to so much as glance at anyone but Ginny now. He will forever be contentedly unaware that he has extinguished the hopeful candle burning within Gabrielle's heart, or that she even had a candle there in the first place.

She knows that he'll be happy with Ginny, though, and maybe that's what hurts her the most; he'll never appreciate what might-have-been, never pine for an unrequited love. He'll turn his blushing bride, his blithe ballerina, on his wedding day without ever realizing that Gabrielle is smarting in the corner with a broken heart. He'll let Ginny become his ray of sunlight, incandescent and warm, lighting up his life, without ever caring that Gabrielle suits him better. He'll let Ginny's fiery curls tickle his chest at night without ever recognizing that Gabrielle's silvery tresses are silkier, softer. He'll open his heart completely to Ginny without ever discerning the way the wound in Gabrielle's chest corresponding throbs more excruciatingly.

She wants to hate him for this, for his complete ignorance of her plight, but her heart won't let her. Instead, she focuses her fury and utter loathing on another source just as equally at blame: Ginny. She begins to detest the way Ginny's always ready with a playful laugh, detest her vivacious and affectionate personality, detest the easiness with which she stole everything Gabrielle ever wanted. _Everything_.

Because Ginny couldn't settle with just taking Harry from her. No, Ginny had to take her dear older sister, Fleur, as well. And she's not just imagining this, as _Maman_ told her the one time she decided to confess her fears (she'll never make that mistake again); Ginny _has_ taken her rightful place as Fleur's darling little sister. Fleur cares more about her fake relation than her real one.

Not that Fleur-- or anyone else in her family, for that matter-- realizes that the familial ties between the Delacours and the Weasleys are superficial at best. Oh, no, _Maman_, _Papa_, and Fleur simply _adore_ the Weasleys, force Gabrielle to endure weekly visits with them, as if her anguish at seeing Harry devotedly holding Ginny in his arms is nonexistent or insignificant. As if she should be thrilled to see Harry, the hero of the Wizarding world, infatuated with another, less worthy woman.

She's dying on the inside, she knows, wilting away like a flower kept too long from sunlight, and there's no Prince Charming there to rescue her. No, he's off saving another girl, creating the love story of the century with her, because that's how love really works in this flawed world: destiny yields to chance.

It's this realization that makes her she decides that love is not pain. It's agony.


	8. Pansy and Draco

**3****. Peter loves Lily written by Cuban Sombrero Gal**

**.Manly Smells.**

**Please note: ****This chapter is rated T for expletives. If you don't like swearing, please don't read, as we are not aiming to offend anyone at all.**

Pansy sits in the front row at his wedding, close enough that his musky scent wafts past her nose, but far enough away that her hands cannot penetrate the barrier that has formed between them, brutally forcing them apart. He smells like a man, like sweaty bed sheets resting taut against pulsating muscles and moist skin, and like Firewhiskey; the scent is so fierce and demanding that the repugnant taste of liquor seems to be creating a trail of fire in her throat.

She's aching to scream "screw you Draco, screw you," but she can't, because she is Pansy Parkinson, friend of the groom, not Pansy Parkinson, jealous cow, buried deep under the sands of regret and unreciprocated love. It's his big day, and fuck, it's unfair and it aches and she's being controlled, tasting the forbidden fruit and preparing to fight before being yanked back into submission by the invisible hands that claw at her body and saturate her heart and weigh her down.

"You may kiss the bride."

Draco and Astoria's lips smash and tears fall – glistening raindrops that caress Astoria's silken skin and Pansy is oblivious to it all. It's not life that's the bitch, not in this case anyway, because it's Astoria Greengrass.

**--**

Draco stumbles up to her later, when she's drifting around; floating amongst the sea of people as though she actually gives a shit about this wedding. His breath is heavy on her face as she nibbles gently on a watercress sandwich; he's damn drunk, putrid alcohol flowing through his veins and his breath like rivers winding towards her heart. Pansy's fingers tighten as she fights her urge to stroke his face, to feel the coarse strands of platinum blonde under her fingers as she did so many years ago, before … that … that _thing _invaded his life and destroyed her.

"I love you Pansy," he mumbles, with shaking hands and slurred words that stumble into each other. Her heart stops. There's one final, deafening thud, and then it falls to the pits of her stomach, lifeless.

"Piss off Draco, you're drunk." Pansy doesn't even know where the words are coming from, but he's wobbling and his breathing is laboured and fuck, is she really that worthless? Every syllable snaps inside her like elastic, pushing out regret and hatred and despair. "You never loved me, you love her. What am I Draco? Am I just the pug faced girl who stroked your hair when you talked about Him and listened to you when you were scared? Screw you Draco, screw you. I don't care what you think anymore."

She turns; the heel of her shoe grating the cold marble floor; it's the exact texture of Draco's face, and she imagines it's his head under her foot, and she has absolutely no idea where this rage is coming from but it feels so damn _wonderful._

Words cross lips and whispers filter through the air as she storms out, and he staggers after her, hands clinging to the bottle of Firewhiskey. For a minute, Pansy feels sorry for Astoria Greengrass, because no-one wants their wedding marred by drunk husbands and shouting guests, but it's only fleeting, because she can smell Draco again, that same manly smell that has tortured her all day.

She supposes he's always smelt like this, but why, oh God why, did she have to realise it now, right when he's slipping through her fingers, an ice-cube in the heat of the sun, trickling away from her. It's everything she's ever wanted, for him to love her, and yet he's drunk and Pansy knows it will mean nothing after Draco takes tomorrow's anti-hangover potion and –

- and yet she still turns back towards him, she still wants him, she still imagines his lips on her and their bodies matching together like the last two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, having found their final place.

**--**

"You smell beautiful," Pansy whispers, "like everything I've ever wanted. He's the forbidden fruit all right, but who really cares, she's doing this and she's leaning and it's wonderful and damn he smells even better from less than an inch away and he's stumbling again and pushing away and those stupid bloody invisible hands are yanking at her again.

"Pansy, what do you think you're doing?"

There's no need for a response, everything is obvious. Astoria has won the prize; she gets to sink her teeth into the fruit, and Pansy gets to walk away, having won nothing and having lost her pride. And why, oh why, did she have to pick today to discover such a luscious scent?

Why did she have to pick today to realise she loved him? And why did he have to smell so damn good?


	9. Harry and Hermione

**9. Harry loves Hermione by –rainbow-lights.**

**-fading into memories-**

When he's with her he feels like he's running down a hallway, full speed at a closed door and right before he reaches the handle, it moves —

— _farther and farther down the hallway, out of the ear-shot of anyone else at The Burrow._

"_What the hell do you find that you're doing?" She demands, scrunching up her nose, and narrowing her eyes: it's what she always does when she's angry. You find it slightly disturbing that you're enjoying this, but, you suppose, at least she's focused on you and not _him

"_You're still holding my hand," you mutter out of the side of your mouth, gazing at her pale fingers that are still clamped tightly unto yours from when she dragged you into the hall promptly after dinner. She flushes, staining her cheeks with the most delicate shade of scarlet, you notice—_

Voices behind its heavy frame, all seemingly belonging to the same person, but at different pitches of hysteria. Tears, laughter, anger all blending into one smooth whirring sound, a mask of no emotions. _The way she is when she's with me_, he thinks bitterly. _He_ really doesn't deserve her, he decides. Not with the way he treats her, ignoring her all the time and making her —

"_Leave." She points to the open tent flap, "Just go on a walk or something."_

_"How can you say that?" You make to touch her bare shoulder but she flinches away, "I mean, after years of being best friends—"_

"_But that's just it, isn't it? You can't stand being _just _best friends, can you?" The two of you exchange a few moments of silence before she picks a book and absentmindedly starts looking at the pages, before she decides to — _

Just turn around and run away. He goes, forgetting about the door, forgetting about her, forgetting about the love she has that'll never be his. Because he's fading into memories again, but this time, he doesn't want to wake up.


	10. Dean and Luna

**10. Dean loves Luna by Cuban Sombrero Gal  
**

**-salvation and dreams-**

Dean laughs as she scrabbles about the dank, putrid room, attempting yet another fruitless search. Gently, he sketches the outline of her face, his eyes tracing every contour of her cheeks, but concrete and a rusty pocket knife cannot capture that ethereal glow on her face. Drawing is his salvation, his escape from the deepest pits of insanity, and yet, lately everything he creates looks so crude and rudimentary.

"What are you doing?" Luna's question is not probing, merely an expression of curiosity.

"You."

Dean says this without any trace of shame. Once, he would have lied, too embarrassed by the whole situation to do anything more than stumble over a false answer. Now, there's no point, any traces of dignity once possessed are absorbed, soaked into the spasmodic sleep and disjointed plans for escape and freedom.

Luna nods thoughtfully, her blue orbs wide with an unidentifiable emotion – is it intrigue or simply a longing for basic human interaction? In this dreadful pit, with its ceaseless smell of mildew and its sinister shadows, it's impossible to tell.

Ollivander's snores persist; night after night they puncture the air, piercing the silence like a knife as his mouth droops and a slight trail of saliva slithers along his chin like a snake.

"Can I see it?"

It's Dean's turn to nod now as she leans over him, her own half-finished face looming in front of her. As Luna's shoulder grazes his cheek, skin caressing skin, he can't help but notice he smells different. Luna smells like dreams. There's not a definable scent, no definition that can be reinforced by a textbook. There's nothing to explain _this,_nothing to explain why she smells like everything Dean has ever wanted. She just does.

Dean smells it again and again, her scent haunts every stifled conversation, all smothered by a blanket of secrecy lest the Malfoys hear. It lingers in every moment, whether he's conscious or in slumber.

If it wasn't so damn confusing, Dean would be convinced he's possessed.

Instead, he just sits there, silt seeping into the seat of his pants (how long has it been since he's had a shower anyway – time is indefinable here, it's measured in food deliveries from a leering, rat-faced man and snippets of news about the outside world), surrounded by half drawn figments of his imagination and wondering what the hell in Merlin's name happened for him deserve such a tantalising fate.

Luna's scent wafts constantly through his nostrils and his mind, and then Harry comes - their knight in shining armour, only he has no intention of falling for this knight because somehow, his subliminal mind has managed to fall for someone else – and they escape, fleeing into comfort's open arms. The scent is still there, but it's weaker, as though it is fragile, easily broken when not fuelled by peril.

**--- **

"Have you ever thought about the future?" Dean asks one day, when the ghosts of Malfoy Manor have started to fade into oblivion.

"The future is indefinable. Daddy always says that no-one can predict it and that Trelawney's a fraud under the influence of Nargles." Luna lets out a giggly little laugh that reminds him of Lavender, and he shudders, because there is absolutely nothing in Luna that is like that … that _twit; _Luna's so much more wholesome and real.

"I know, but then again … she _did _predict Hermione leaving our class back in third year. What I mean though, is, do you ever dream about the future – you know, what's the job you want, who's the person you want to marry."

Dean makes every attempt to keep his voice candid, but his heart is racing, and he seriously doesn't know why. All he knows it that no-one, not even Ginny, has ever made him feel quite like this.

"Me? Marry? Do you know how many people would laugh at that?" It's so matter of fact; the words flee her throat with no emotions attached, it scares him.

"I wouldn't."

Luna nods yet again, as though she has no idea how to respond, which, Dean rationalizes, she probably doesn't.

"Thanks."

It's just a simple gesture, nothing more than an exchange between friends, between two people who have laughed together and cried together and endured hell together, and yet, in this garden, sparkling with sunlight and reeking of sea salt and of _her_, it means everything.

**--- **

And then she runs off and gets married to that Rolf guy, who hasn't been through half as much with her as he has, and it still means everything, but now it's everything heartbreaking, and nothing right, and he wonders, just occasionally, if she smells as good to Rolf as she did to him.


End file.
